


That Good Love

by Cannebady



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: A very short and very sweet fic I wrote on Tumblr and forgot to post here, Aziraphale Has Feelings (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has PTSD (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Drabble, Ficlet, Good to be specific, Happy Ending, Kissing, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Supportive Crowley (Good Omens), The Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known, The Mortifying Ordeal of Four Letter Words, The challenges of being in love, they are very in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:01:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24311725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cannebady/pseuds/Cannebady
Summary: As it would turn out, the major Three Word Statement is not the one that's the most challenging.Both Aziraphale and Crowley deal with the fallout of millennia of nonsense from Heaven and Hell, and support each other through their redefining the word Good.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 119





	That Good Love

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! I decided that I'll include any short ficlets or drabbles I write on Tumblr here for easy location.
> 
> This is the shortest, least explicit thing I've ever written. It was also written furiously in about 15 minutes based on a random Tumblr prompt.
> 
> Enjoy!

It doesn't take long, once the world keeps spinning, for them to say words that have been ceaselessly bubbling beneath the surface as long as the Earth has been performing her spinning act.

The Big Three, as it turns out, are the easy part.

Aziraphale is a being of love at his core, and all that has been holding him back from shouting, screaming, maniacally writing, and whispering " _I love you_ " to Crowley was a misguided sense of duty and service. With that portion of his angelic contract well and truly voided, it's easy as breathing to voice those them passionately, _repeatedly_. His existing imperative becomes letting his darling demon know just how much he's loved. How he's cherished. How he's absolutely necessary to Aziraphale in every way (and always has been).

And Crowley, well, one may think that a demon would struggle to speak of love, but this demon isn't one of your garden variety (pun certainly intended) and has no such qualms. He's been in love for the lifespan of the Earth and the only thing holding him back from cradling the angel's face in his hands and repeating "I love you, I love you, _I love you_ " ad nauseum was, in fact, the angel himself. So when Aziraphale takes his hand, removes his glasses and says those words, the response flows easy as a downhill stream.

They feel good of course. It's amazing to hear the thing you've wanted to be true spoken into tangible reality. And they're both ecstatic, they really are, but you don't spend more than 6,000 years under the thumb of Heaven or Hell without a few fissures running through your psyche. As it turns out, there's a different set of three words that start to pose a challenge.

"You are good" is a deceptively simple statement. Three words, three syllables, and a minefield between them.

One of the quirks of human language, Crowley's found, is in the emphasis. For example if you say "You ought to know...", it's a statement of sharing, where you're providing information that seems pertinent to another party. Change the emphasis to "You _ought_ to _know_ " and it's read as condescending, combative, passive aggressive. You're letting someone know that they've quite missed something and certainly should not have done.

The whole thing was a real pain in the arse when we was first mastering the speaking with vocal chords thing. It remains a pain in the arse to this day, if he's being honest.

But the phrase in question, "You are good" has three main purposes, he's found, each soothing and unsettling in their own way.

The first time Crowley, with no superiors looking over his shoulder, casually performs a miracle (gently easing the migraine of an exhausted new mom) he just so happens to do it in front of Aziraphale, which is a mistake in and of itself. He tries to scowl dangerously (demonically?) but the angel just beams at him unhindered and says, eyes shining with unadulterated love, "You are _good_ , my dear. So very good."

And _that_? Well, what the _Heaven_ was he supposed to do with _that_? Sure it set his heart racing and made bloody butterflies (or is that fireworks?) shoot off in his chest, but it also cut to the thing of himself he struggles with the most. He managed little more than incomprehensible noises and a visible tightening of his jaw, until Aziraphale took pity on him, squeezed his hand and lead them on their way, specifically moving on to other, less fraught topics.

Crowley let it go, because the last thing he wanted was to have to talk about it, because then he'd have to _deny_ it, which would bring up all sorts of unpleasantness and things were so very pleasant right now. But he kept hearing it in his head, over and over and over, _you are good._

Good.

_Good._

And what's a demon to do with that?

\---

Several weeks later, he takes note of something itching beneath the angel's skin; to a casual observer he seemed completely normal, but Crowley is no casual observer. He's spent years watching and observing from the sidelines, so long that he's a bloody _professional_ at this point, so he knows immediately when something is off. While they still have lunch and dinner, Aziraphale doesn't take to the food with his usual gusto, he's quieter overall (something Crowley has, on occasion, wished for and now vehemently kicks himself for, because the reality is _awful_ ), and most disconcertingly, he can't seem to focus on reading. Night after night he watches the angel stare blankly at a page, eyes unmoving as he flips between pages, turns back, and goes through the process several more times, before he gives up to fuss with something else as a distraction.

The angel's movements take on a rough, jerky quality he's only ever associated with himself within the confines of their relationship and, being a demon, he can sense the feeling of frustration coming off the angel in increasing waves. Initially, he thought he might be the cause. Perhaps the angel needed some space, so he takes to going to his own flat in Mayfair a couple of nights a week. Unfortunately, the waves of frustration (and maybe hopelessness? Crowley can't tell) don't abate and seem to be worse when Aziraphale's been left alone.

It's obvious that things are coming to a head, so he's really very unsurprised when, after missing a date to meet Crowley at St. James Park, he goes to the bookshop to find it in a bit of disarray, culminating in a broken angel wing mug and an angel with a faraway look in his eyes and tear-stained cheeks.

"Oh angel," he says and, for the first time, finds himself unbothered by how soft his tone is. With no sense of self-preservation to be found, he immediately approaches Aziraphale and reaches out.

Aziraphale turns to him and looks to be considering trying to explain away what happened here before he, instead, seems to give up and crumples against Crowley's chest, letting himself let it all out.

Crowley, realizing he's not about to be rebuffed, squeezes him close, pets through his hair the way Aziraphale does when he's had a nightmare, strokes his back focusing on the place where, on another plane, gleaming white wings flutter. He keeps him close and secure while the sobs and shaking take their course, sure he's murmuring nonsense platitudes into the angel's hair and not caring a whit all things considered.

After several minutes, Aziraphale finally breaks his silence. "She didn't _care_ , Crowley. All this _time_ , all of those _people_ , and She just _didn't care at all_."

And this, Crowley knows, even when he wishes he didn't. He's uniquely qualified to understand disillusionment with the Almighty; how cruel and callous She can be, and how much more it hurts for that neglect to come from something (Someone) who once imbued you with divine purpose.

"I know, angel, I'm sorry." He really is. Truly sorry that the heavenly host let down their finest.

"I just keep thinking, if I were better, _smarter_ , if I were really _good enough_ then maybe-", and then he's wracked with another shiver and Crowley pulls him tighter and finds himself assuring his angel with conviction he didn't know he possessed.

"That's _nonsense_ , angel, you're the _best_ of them. You're so much better, it's their loss, see? Their loss, _my_ gain, _humanity's_ gain."

And when those words seem to glaze over, he finds new ones in a well worn memory of his own.

"You _are_ good, Aziraphale. _You_ are good. Not heavenly good, humanity good. The only good that matters."

And that there? That cuts to the core of Aziraphale's fears with the same three words that cut to Crowley's just a few weeks earlier.

Aziraphale is okay with _good_. He's been on the side of good (in his not particularly humble opinion) his entire existence. But it's the _are_ and the _you_ that makes the difference. Because sod Heaven and their definition of the word. Aziraphale practices _good_ , and _kind_ and not for the likes of Heaven and their paltry masquerade of the term, but for himself and for the humans and _that_ , well, that's _nothing_ like the sterile goodness of the host.

Aziraphale pulls back, eyes red-rimmed and lower lip wobbling, but there's steel under fleece (always has been, his angel with his duality) and waves of admiration, shock and love radiate from those seafoam eyes and all over Crowley and before he knows it, Aziraphale's lips are on his so soft and sweet and reverent that he thinks he may shake to pieces with the intent of it. The _rightness_ of it. The overwhelming, incandescent _good-ness_.

And so that's where they stand, together in protection of Her greatest creation that she chose to abandon, in protection of each other (Her children she cast aside), learning what it's like to redefine the Good for themselves.

So it goes, that over time, they become more accustom to the words; less raw from millennia of trauma, false purpose, and self-doubt. But when the fear creeps in, as it's wont to do, they have each other to be strong with and strong for, and the rough-hewn mastery of the three words that get to define them now, in all of their forms. 

_You_ are good

You _are_ good

You are _good_


End file.
